


The Pie Maker

by frenchmymistake



Category: Pushing Daisies, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alive Marco, M/M, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein-centric, More tags to be added, Murder Mystery, Pushing daisies AU!, Second Chances, dead Marco, it's a bit complicated marco, pie maker!jean, poetry nerd! marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchmymistake/pseuds/frenchmymistake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Jean, the line between life and death was a very blurred one. For Marco, death isn’t easy but life isn’t a walk in the park either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pie Maker

**Author's Note:**

> !!This is a fic inspired by Pushing Daisies created by Bryan Fuller, some quotes are taken directly from the show!!
> 
> We've been talking about this since February and we're finally posting this now... in July... hehe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr Bodt is second door to the left.”  
> Jean’s face paled, “M -Mr Bodt?” His voice rose and cracked.  
> Mr Pikale nodded, counting the wad of cash, oblivious to Jean’s discomfort, “Yeah one Marco Bodt. The funeral starts in ten minutes so don’t dilly dally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter one!! we're /literally/ agonising over what the title should be right now ahh

_I wandered lonely as a cloud,_  
_That floats on high o'er vales and hills._  
_When all at once I saw a crowd,_  
_A host, of golden daffodils,_  
_Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_  
_Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

 

* * *

 

For a Sunday morning, business in The Pie Hole was unusually slow. So slow that in the two hours it had been open, there had been only one customer. In fact that customer was a money driven private investigator. However, he wasn’t there to relax, he was too busy investigating the untimely demise of a certain Frank Paka. That private investigator’s name was Connie Springer.

The case was a peculiar one, and required as much attention and help as Mr Springer could get. Although Eren Jaeger, the waiter in such a fine establishment, decided that the murder driven attention should be spent on things of much more importance such as pies.

He slid into the seats opposite Connie, startling the investigator’s companion who was now trapped against the wall. “Every day when I come in, I pick a pie. You know what I do next? I put all my love into that pie. ‘Cause if I love it, someone else is gonna love it, and y’know what?” Eren said, pausing to check if the older man was listening. Connie motioned with his hand for Eren to carry on with this little speech, “By the end of the day, I’ve sold more of those pies than any other of the pies in the bakery.” Said the young waiter, smiling enthusiastically at the investigator.

Connie raised his eyebrows at the boy, “Yeah? So what kinda pie are putting all your love in today?” He asked humouring him.

“Rhubarb.”

“Well, I’m avoiding that like the plague. I’ll stick with three plum.” Connie said flatly as he watched Eren’s face drop and laughed to himself as the boy turned disheartened towards the counter.

Connie was not particularly fond of pie nor Eren, and when you put them together Connie was not a very happy man indeed. In fact the only reason Connie was in The Pie Hole was to see the man who was now sat brushing himself down after getting to know the wall a little too well for his liking.

“Jean, at least listen before going back to your god damn pie making.”

“No.” Jean crossed his arms, giving Connie his signature grimace. “It’s your job. As mine is making pies.”

“Ah but, it’s about a dog.”

Jean glanced at Macaroni, his own dog who had whined at the mention of the word dog. “What kind of dog?” He asked slowly, “This doesn’t mean I’ll join you though.”

“It’s gonna be a dead dog, a dead dog named Lasagne - They’re putting her down, ‘cause allegedly she killed her owner.”

The two men looked up as a slice of pie slid between them. “Who killed who’s owner?” asked Eren, looking down at them intently.

Connie frowned and took a bite of the pie, “It ain’t none of your goddamn business, this is a members only conversation and you ain’t no member.”

“You tell Jean, “ Argued Eren, “He isn’t a private detective… In fact what does Jean even do in your little members only club?” Erens face scrunched up as he drew quotation marks in the air.

Jean wriggled uncomfortably. The facts were these: 19 years, 27 weeks, 7 days and 26 minutes earlier, Jean discovered he had a special talent.

_At that very moment in the little town of Trost, young Jean Kirshtein was 8 years, 27 weeks, 6 days and 5 minutes old. His dog Macaroni was 3 years, 2 weeks, 6 days, 5 hours and 2 minutes old and not a second older when Macaroni got hit by a car. The dog, a golden retriever that Jean had had since he was a puppy, was thrown into the air with a yelp and left lying in the middle of the road stone dead._

_Until Jean touched him that was. Poor Jean was devastated, he ran up to his lifelong friend and gingerly touched the empty face. That's when the unbelievable happened. At the touch of Jean's hand Macaroni lifted his head. For a moment, you could see the disbelief in Macaroni’s eyes before he leapt to his feet and carried on running about as if nothing had happened._

That was the moment Jean realised he didn’t have the conventional sort of talent like the other kids in his class. While some could twist their tongue into shapes or could rap an eminem song off by heart: Jean’s talent was far more morbid. He could bring the dead back to life.  
This touch was a gift given to him, but not by anyone in particular. There was no box, no instructions, no manufacturer’s warranty: it just was.

_Connie Springer was the sole keeper of Jean’s secret. 4 years, 14 weeks, 2 days, 3 hours and 5 minutes earlier Private investigator, Mr. Springer had met The Pie Maker when his Pie Hole was on the verge of bankruptcy. He was in pursuit of a suspect across the rooftops of Jinae when the suspect had taken a rather unexpected shortcut. He had jumped off the building and unfortunately for him died instantly, hitting his head on a dumpster. If there was an appropriate time, Connie would’ve made a joke about the suspect taking a shortcut to heaven but, he doubted anyone else would see the irony behind his joke._

_What Connie was not expecting was the suspect to miraculously come back to life after colliding with the even more unsuspecting Jean Kirshtein who had happened to be opening the dumpster at that very moment in time. He was even more shocked to see Jean pursue the now alive again and running man. This shock turned to slight disgust and amazement when after another touch from the Pie Maker, the running suspect was once again a dead one._

Mr. Springer proposed a partnership, after all murders are a lot easier to solve if the victim can tell you who did it. Also, he’d never go hungry on the job again.

Jean glanced up at Eren who was watching him expectantly. “It’s a long story.” He said with a sheepish grin. The door chimed as a single man entered The Pie Hole. The trio watched as he took a seat in the middle of the room, placing a large wooden brown box onto his table.

“Hmmm, I wonder whether he’ll get rhubarb.” Eren remarked looking pointedly at Connie whilst making no attempt to go and greet the customer.

“Well maybe if you ask him what he’d like to order, you’ll find out.”

Eren smiled sarcastically and shuffled off. Connie turned back to Jean folding his arms across his chest. “So are we gonna make a zombie or not?”

Jean slumped his shoulders, “I asked you not to use the word "zombie": It’s not like it’s The Walking Dead or anything. And don’t say "undead" either, nobody wants to be un- anything. Why begin a statement with the negative? It’s like saying "I don’t disagree": just say "You agree".

“Are you comfortable with "living dead"?”

Jean sighed and threw his hands up in the air. “You’re either living or you’re dead: there’s no inbetween. Can’t we say "alive again"? Doesn’t that sound nicer and easier?”

“Sounds like you’re narcoleptic.”

“I suffer from sudden and uncontrollable attacks of deep sleep?” Jean furrowed his eyebrows. “Narcolepsy is a serious neurological disorder you can’t-”

“What’s the other one?”

“Necrophilia. But I don’t get how I’m a necrophiliac if I bring people back to life. Necro is the latin root for dead. It literally means dead. ”

“Words that sound alike get mixed up in my head.”

Eren piped up from the other side of the diner. “Me too! I thought that masterbation meant chewing your food.” He paused and looked at the disturbed faces of the 3 people in the diner, “I don’t anymore obviously…” He giggled.

Jean turned back to Connie as Eren retreated to the haven of behind the counter where no one could judge him. “What do you mean when you said this dog ‘allegedly’ killed her owner?”

Connie leant forward resting his elbows on the table and placing his fingers together. “Lasagne was framed. Someone put part of the victim in her mouth.”

“Huh.”

“Docile as a kitten says the family.” Connie said handing over a picture of the dog.

Jean raised his eyebrows, “Despite it being a Chow, one of the dogs voted most likely to turn on his owner?”

Connie scowled and snatched back the photo, holding it close to his chest, “Hey, that’s racial profiling. Lookee here, if the dog’s innocent then it’s murder, and if it’s murder it means there’s a reward.” He smiled and waggled his eyebrows at the mention of a reward.

 

* * *

 

The morgue is not your typical place to spend a Saturday but this was where Jean found himself. It was a horrible place, smelling of bleach and other chemical products that made Jean’s stomach turn. That’s what Connie said at least, Jean liked to include the factor of talking to dead people. However, he was pretty sure today would be his last chat with the not-so-dead deceased.

A deep voice brought him back from his wandering thoughts. “You the dog expert?”

Jean looked down at the man sat at the desk in front of him. Erwin Smith, also known as The Coroner, was not a particularly talkative man. It was common knowledge that communication skills aren’t necessary for a job involving examining dead people, as the only people in the morgue are usually the deceased and the Coroner himself. And dead people tend not to talk.

Jean nodded, “Yup, hi that’s me,” he said smiling nervously.

Erwin eyed him dubiously. “A dog expert came earlier.”

“I… uh, I’m the other one.” Jean said unconvincingly as he stood awkwardly, arms crossed in front of his chest, obviously not wanting to be there.

“Mmm- hmmm, body’s down there.” Erwin pointed down the long empty corridor. Connie nodded quickly, in unspoken thanks and dragged Jean behind him before the younger blonde managed to escape.

“Let’s get this over and done with then.” Said Connie as he leant anxiously against the wall. Although the private detective was perfectly up for waking the dead if it meant more money for him, he still found the idea slightly creepy and unnatural. Jean peeked under the sheet covering the body in question. “How does he look?”

“Fine,” Jean said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “But my threshold’s pretty high so you have to take what I say with a pinch of salt.” He placed the sheet back over the the man’s face and stepped back to let Connie have a look.

Connie stepped up gingerly and cautiously lifted the sheet. His eyes remained on the man’s face for less than a second before he dropped the sheet and retreated to a safe distance. "You’re goddamn right it’s high. Higher than the Empire State Building, with King Kong on top.”

Jean laughed, "Shall we wake him up then?"

Connie shrugged, "Do what you gotta do, as long as I get my reward. But I ain’t staying to watch.” He turned and walked out of the room, peeking through the little window.

Jean pulled back the sheet once again exposing the man beneath. He started his stopwatch and gently prodded him. At that exact moment, the man, who was previously lying there dead, sat up.

“Um, hi there Mr. Paka?” Said Jean awkwardly, giving the man a slight wave.

The man propped himself up on one elbow completely oblivious to what was going on. "Well hi to you too."

"Uhh," Jean not entirely sure on what to do, gestured towards his own face, where his cheek was, and coincidentally where Mr. Paka's was not.

Mr Paka reached up and began patting the air where the said cheek used to be. "Is there something on my face?"

Jean shook his head, "Not exactly..."

Mr. Paka sighed. "That damned dog."

Jean’s metaphorical ears pricked. "What dog? Lasagne?"

Mr. Paka laughed and looked at him as if Jean had grown an extra head. "No! Lasagne is as docile as a kitten." A muffled I told you so came from the small window in the door that Connie had disappeared through, and Jean could make out a tongue being stuck out at him through the misted glass. "The rottweiler, my secretary’s dog. She's been angry with me ever since -"  
Mr Paka's explanation was cut short by a beeping from Jean's stopwatch and with an apologetic smile and a quick touch he was back to being dead.

Connie poked his head through the gap in the door. “Are you done? I dunno about you but I hate undead things.”

Before they could leave, Erwin called out to them from his desk, “So was it Lasagne?”

Jean shook his head, “Secretary’s rottweiler.”

 

* * *

 

Inside his flat above The Pie Hole, Eren lay on the sofa with one arm continuously stroking the Macaroni’s head. They watched as the guilty secretary and rottweiler responsible for Mr Paka’s death were hauled out of a police vehicle into court. Lasagne’s name was clear and she was a free canine once again.

Eren smiled, looking down at Macaroni who had rolled over onto his stomach for Eren’s tummy rubs. He liked spending time with Macaroni; it made up for the lack of communication and contact he wished he shared with Jean.

“So,” Eren asked, as he heard the door to his apartment open. “How was your convention?”

“Conventional to say the least. How was Macaroni?” Said Jean walking into the living room.

“Oh you know how us usually is.” Eren smiled, crossing his arms as Macaroni abandoned him for his owner. He saw Jean’s face turn into one of some confusion. “Neurotic.” Eren laughed. “He’s a pretty needy dog. Do you play with him?” Eren pouted. “Do you even stroke him?” He stood up and tried his best to casually walk over to Jean, hands reaching out as if he was going to tickle the blonde. Jean attempted to avoid this but in the process he knocked over a pile of magazines from the coffee table before retreating backwards into the kitchen. “Maybe if you played with him once in a while, he wouldn’t be so needy.”

“I stroke him.” Jean retorted, “I’m allergic, so I can’t actually touch him, but I stroke him. And throw him stuff to catch sometimes.”

Eren squinted, “How? With a stick?”

“A, uhm,” Jean paused, “Yeah a stick, it’s a… stick stroking,” Jean started to blush, “I mean a stroking stick device thingy I invented.” Jean carried on taking steps away from Eren into the small kitchenette, keeping the small island counter between them.

“You know, I read about this somewhere online,” said Eren, “Physical interaction is really important to building strong relationships between animals and people.” He smiled at Jean.

Jean coughed awkwardly, moving away. “The stroking stick does the physical interactions.” He tried to avoid Eren’s gaze and looked around. This hadn’t been the first time Eren had said something to make him sweat. “I’m okay with no physical interaction, it’s er-” He paused as Eren attempted to close the gap between them by leaning over the counter grinning ear to ear.

“Hugs Jean.” He stood up straight and held his arms out, “They’re natural stress relievers and you, sir, need to relieve some of that stress!”

The beeping sound of the ‘Urgent News’ feature coming from the TV broke the moment Eren had been trying to create. Jean turned and ran into the living room, followed by Eren scuttling after him.

“Life guards were called to a cruise ship off the coast of Costa Rica, when a report of an unnamed body was found floating beside the ships. Officials are withholding the identity of the victim but we believe it is a male in his late twenties-”

As the news anchor carried on with her story, Jean’s heart had momentarily paused; almost like the heart itself needed a moment to process what had just been broadcasted. His lungs ached from the lack of air being pushed in and out but the little voice inside Jean’s head would argue that the announcement of a dead man was far more important than the stale air in his chest. Any other person watching the news would just see this as a sad tragedy but for Jean, it was so much more.

Macaroni whined, holding his lead in his mouth. It took a moment for Jean to snap back to reality. Giving Eren a quick nod of thanks, he bid him a hasty good night and rushed out of the apartment, Macaroni following closely behind.

Jean couldn’t sleep that night. He was too busy thinking about the cruise ship, the victim, the sea, occasionally about the inhabitants of the waters, but mostly about the victim. This carried on through the morning preparations, making pies in an autonomic state, the subject at the front of his mind was still the mysterious dead man.

“Hello? Earth to Jean-y boy?” Connie waved his hand in front of Jean’s face from across the table.

Jean blinked a couple of times before realising that Connie was talking to him. “Huh?”

“Hear anything… interesting recently?”

“Interesting? Nope, nothing interesting recently, why do you ask?” He said quickly, mostly for his own benefit in an attempt to push the boat boy to the back of his mind.

“Well, a dead man on a boat seems pretty damn interesting.” Leaning forwards Connie beckoned Jean to come closer, “But you know what’s even more interesting? The $50,000 reward.”

Jean leant back, “That is interesting. But we know next to nothing about him so we have no leads or ideas where to start. I mean we don’t even know where he’s fro-”

“Trost. That’s where he’s from and that’s where he’ll lie.” As soon as the word came out of Connie’s mouth, Jean’s heart sank. Of all the places, it had to be there. “You ever been there?”

He nodded. “Kinda, I mean I lived there for a while.” Jean trailed off before realising Connie was staring. “We uhh, have a name yet?” He asked, hoping to God he would not to hear the name that still haunted his thoughts.

Connie shook his head, “Nah, those details haven’t been released yet. Technically they haven’t released anything yet.”

“How do you know where he is then?”

“I have my sources.” Whilst Jean furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, Connie waggled his.

 

* * *

 

Jean had not set foot in Trost in over 19 years and he was not planning to anytime soon. That was until the dead man turned up. And here he was stood in front of a funeral home. His hands were shaking and there was a horrible tightness in his chest that had been growing ever since he saw the mystery man being pulled from the sea a few nights ago.

“You ready?” Asked Connie, sensing something was not the same with his partner in crime.

“Mhmmm” Jean said, nodding his head hurriedly, he held his breath as he passed through the entrance, exhaling when he made it inside.

Carlo Pikale was the funeral director in charge, always happy to earn a few bucks here and there. Even at the expense of his rather silent clients. So when the odd duo turned up at his door he didn’t think twice about granting the deceased an audience in exchange for a few notes begrudgingly given by Connie.

“Mr Bodt is second door to the left.”

Jean’s face paled, “M -Mr Bodt?” His voice rose and cracked.

Mr Pikale nodded, counting the wad of cash, oblivious to Jean’s discomfort, “Yeah one Marco Bodt. The funeral starts in ten minutes so don’t dilly dally.”

Turning to Connie, Jean shuffled nervously. “Um, is it okay this time if do this alone? Personal business and stuff like that?”

“You got something you need to say?"

No.” Jean’s eye twitched and Connie raised his eyebrows. “Okay, maybe yes, but it’s just for a bit of peace and closure.”

“As far as I’m concerned, this is a strictly business visit which ends with me counting that $50,000 in my bathtub at home.”

Jean wrinkled his nose at the thought, “Well, I just wanna say some stuff 8 year old me couldn’t.”

“Alright but you better ask him who’s the killer before you confess your little school crush.” Connie said pointedly, gesturing at his eyes and then at Jean.

Jean shut the door whilst Connie yelled from outside, “Be quick! You only got a minute.”

After the incident with Macaroni, Jean expected someone to take him away to a special facility to teach him about his rather morbid gift. He was wrong. Weeks went by, without any man in a wheelchair or fairy knocking on his door. As far as Jean was concerned, there was a much more pressing matter. Marco Bodt.

_Marco Bodt lived in the same street as Jean for as long as he could remember. They would go to and from school together and have play dates on the weekend. For present day Jean, those times together were precious memories to him of his childhood friend. At the time, Marco was 7 years, 22 weeks, 7 days and 4 minutes old. Jean had just come home from their usual Saturday play date to his mother, making strawberry pie. You could say this is what fuelled Jean’s later career but Jean would disagree._

_“Jean honey, maybe tomorrow you could ask Marco if he wanted to come over for a slice of pie. Better that than me having to do endless laundry cycles of your dirty clothes.” Jean nodded and was about to head upstairs when he heard his mother gasp before falling to the floor._

_A coroner would state she had suffered a heart attack from a sudden surge of eating pastries but Jean was only a boy and didn’t really understand what had happened or what to do. Macaroni who had been lying under the table, whimpered, pawing at Jean’s mother’s apron, hoping Jean understood what the retriever was trying to say._

_Holding his breath, Jean gingerly knelt down beside his mother, “Mom?” Shutting his eyes tight, he touched her nose – and she was brought back to life._

_If only a man in a wheelchair or fairy had come knocking on Jean’s door before that event because Jean was not prepared for what would happen next._

Jean looked at the coffin, wondering if he opened it he would ever be able to shut it again. He shook his head, as if banishing any negative thoughts and gingerly ran his hand over the top of the coffin. He rested his hand on the wood for a few minutes before working up the courage to open the casket.

The first thing Jean thought when he laid his eyes upon his childhood friend was how long it had been since he last saw Marco. His hair was longer, not in the short organised style his father used to keep it in, instead it floated along his jawline. Even in death he was smiling slightly and the same familiar freckles danced across his cheeks. He looked more like he was sleeping than dead.

Even though the room was empty, Jean still felt the need to glance around and check if anyone was watching. He reached out hesitantly and then paused, as if afraid to touch Marco’s face. Great thought was taken as to where to touch him. Hovering his hand over Marco’s face Jean smiled. If this was under different circumstances it would be significantly less weird but Marco was different. All of the other people Jean had brought back were people he didn’t know. Marco however, was well, Marco. There was history between them and this fact threw Jean completely off balance.

Shaking his head, he tried to banish those thoughts and in the process dropped his hand, touching Marco along the side of his face. Marco’s eyes flashed open, wide with fear. As if by instinct he reached up taking Jean by surprise and grabbed his tie, pulling his head down and into the side of the coffin.

By the time Jean had realised what had happened and steadied himself on his feet, Marco had jumped out of his coffin and was now facing Jean with a chair held out like a shield in front of him, his eyes wide with panic.

“Ow! Ohh … Marco, wait!”

“Yes? I mean,” He panted, “How do you know my name? Who do you work for?”

“What?” Jean groaned holding his nose, then realising the little time he had left shook his head and continued, “Two decades ago, a little boy lived in your street.” He grimaced, hoping that he did remember. Otherwise, this would be insanely awkward for them both.

“Yeah, Jean my best frien-” Marco said, lowering the chair with a smile. “Oh, my God, Jean! Oh crap your nose I’m sorry, I, uh, how are you?” He began to move closer, but Jean held put a hand to stop him.

“It’s fine it’s fine, Good! You look great! Uh, do you know what’s happening right now?”

“Well, I’m meant to be on a cruise ship in the Pacific but I think I must’ve fallen asleep because I had the strangest dream. Or maybe this is a dream?”

Jean’s face dropped for a fraction of a second before he checked his emotions and himself. “You died on the cruise ship, Marco.” He paused, unsure whether to go on. “I’m sorry… That was blunt, I didn’t mean…”

Marco’s smile disappeared after registering the coffin behind him, “Oh.”

“We don’t have much time, less than a minute really.” Said Jean apologetically.

“Less than a minute for what? What’s going on?”

Jean sighed. “You could tell me who killed you so, y’know,” He gave a small half smile. “You can get Justice or whatever”

“Jean… That’s really sweet,” Marco said, his trademark smile returning, “But if that dream was real, I don’t know who killed me. All I remember was going to get a drink, and I heard a splash coming from the water. I thought it might have been a dolphin or something so I looked over the side and, and then somebody pushed me. I can’t swim, looking after my aunts didn’t really require swimming so I blacked out. And now I’m here, with you telling me I’m dead.”

There was a knock on the door. "What the hell’s going on in there?" Connie whispered harshly through the door. “Hurry up and move it.”

"Just a second!" Jean said, gritting his teeth before turning back to Marco.

"What? Are you leaving?" Marco asked, his face dropping at the thought of it.

"I’m sorry. I wish I could just walk out of here and leave you as you are, believe me I do but I can’t. I know a minute is a pretty poor excuse for a second life but it’s all I can do."

Marco took a sharp breath and took one step closer to Jean. “I have no idea what’s going on but well… thanks for trying to help, to find out who killed me.”

Jean wrung his hands in his shirt. Up until now he was as fine as he could get with the whole ‘one minute second life’ thing but now he was faced with doing the same to Marco, he hesitated. “You know…”

“Know what?”

“I really liked you when we were kids.”

Marco smiled, “Yeah? I liked you too. My first friend… probably my last if i’m honest but, is that weird?”

Jean gave Marco a genuine smile. “Not at all. It’s magical .” As Jean said those words, Marco made his way back to his casket.

Marco’s minute of life was nearly over. Jean’s chest tightened and his heart thudded. Every inch of his body wouldn’t reach out for Marco, as much as he wanted to touch his face one last time, he couldn’t will his body to go any further.

Marco looked at Jean, rubbing his eyes. “I guess I’ll see you around sometime, hopefully not too soon if you know what I mean.” He saw the look of despair flash in Jean’s eyes for a fraction of a second but he thought it would be best not to show Jean he saw it.

“What if you didn’t have to die… again?”

Marco laughed. “That’d be nice.”

Jean’s eyes darted around the room. Touching Marco and taking away his second life would have been the natural thing to do but that wasn't the only choice he had and the latter option seemed like a much better idea. “Hurry and get in! Don’t let anyone know you’re not dead.” He held back a laugh, the whole situation was absurd. “I’ve gotta get you out of here, can you lie really still until I come back for you?”

Whilst Marco posed for his death, Jean went back outside to meet an anxious Connie. “Yeah, dead end. We should get going.” He wiped his forehead.

“So, someone just threw his carcass over the side of a boat,” Connie scoffed, “Why’re you so sweaty? What’ve you been doing?”

“Well, uh yeah actually,” Jean’s eye twitched, “It’s warm here… in there. Central heating problems.”

Connie narrowed his eyes. “Your eye. It’s twitching. When people aren’t being honest, their eye twitches. Right there! Like yours did just now.”

“It’s nerves. Aggravated by a stomach thing: it’s like a reflex now for when I bring dead people back, but in my eye. I think I’m gonna stay for the service.”

“My ass it’s nerves. What you and that dead guy got going on?”

Jean shrugged, “I’m just feeling nostalgic. Do you remember how to get back to the station? It’s down the, um, I’ll walk back instead.” He pushed Connie towards the door, “You know, healthy and stuff. You should try it.”

While Connie protested outside, Jean rushed back into the room where he had left Marco to find the room empty. The sound of an engine reminded Jean of the funeral directors last words, ‘The funeral starts in ten minutes.’

 

* * *

 

Lying in the dark waiting for Jean to come find him, Marco considered how he went from travelling the world to being welcomed into his second chance at life. He considered the life he had with Aunts Ymir and Christa. From when they first took him in after the sudden death of his father to the last time he had seem them; before his first and technically last trip to see the world.

The aunt's former field of employment, was one not mentionable to most people,although it did mean that leaving the house was quite difficult to do now they had retired for some reason. Which in turn made it difficult for Marco to leave them. After all those years they spent looking after him, he felt it was his responsibility to look after them now. Marco didn't know exactly what the aunts did before he was thrown into their lives, but that was probably because he never asked. Their line of work was on a need to know basis and Marco did not need to know.

He served his community by harvesting honey for the homeless. He never strayed very far from home, except in books where he would enter worlds unknown. As the books filled the bookshelves and piled up on the floor, he read about more and more people he could never be, on adventures he would never have. Life was good enough, until one day, it wasn’t: Marco wanted more. Subsequently, by wanting more out of life, Marco Bodt had ended his.

But at the moment, this second life didn’t seem bad. He didn’t mind lying in the coffin since he knew Jean would find him, no matter how long it took. After all, Jean always won win hide and seek.

Unlike Marco, Jean knew he didn’t have much time. As he ran after the hearse he thought about all the possible lines he could say when he retrieved Marco from the grave. Something heroic? Some cheesy and downright terrible pun? But as he approached the hole in the ground after Marco’s family had left and reached down to open the casket all he could say was, “Hey.”

Marco beamed, “Hey there.”

 

* * *

 

Back in The Pie Hole after hours of Marco marvelling at his second life, Jean had finally managed to shut him up long enough to explain the rules of his new life.

“Rules number one, you have to stay in the apartment.”

Marco crossed his arms, “So basically you’re putting me in a bigger coffin where I can walk about.”

Jean winced, “No I’m just trying to make sure nobody recognises you. I mean it’s not like you’re a major headline with your face plastered over all of the major broadcasting networks right now.”

Marco stared into Jean’s eyes. Even if he had been dead only a few hours before; Marco couldn’t accept that his new life would be one stuck inside a flat all alone. “Can I at least see my Aunts?” Jean shook his head, “So, I have to stay inside the walkabout coffin 7 days a week meaning I can’t see my aunts. Not even for christmas? Their birthdays?” Jean shook his head again.

“What if you need a hug? I can’t even hug you? A hug can turn your day around.”

Jean sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I’m not really a fan of hugs.”

“Then you haven’t been hugged properly!” Marco leaned forward reaching for Jean’s hands, just missing them as Jean pulled away. He coughed, “A hug is like a physical assurance, soothing you to the core, telling you that you’re doing just fine without having to hear those words.”

“That’s a nice thought but please don’t touch me.” Jean took a sip from his drink. “We should get going. It’s late; you’re not dead anymore and you’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah, I suppose dying’s a sign that I should start living a healthier life.”

“You didn’t die from bad health though.”

“I know.” Marco flicked a crumb from the table at him, “It might have been easier though right? No mystery killer or anything.”

 

* * *

 

When Jean opened the door to his apartment, now dubbed the ‘walk-in-coffin’ by Marco, Macaroni was lying on the rug in wait for his best friend. He gave a little bark and ran over, sitting obediently in front of him waiting to be petted.

“You remember Macaroni?”

Marco squinted at the dog, “Did you...? Is he...?”

Jean looked at Marco sheepishly, “Yeah.”

He wandered off into the apartment, looking around at everything. "Are there any more people you’ve uh, touched?”

In Jean’s defense, he had only kept two people and one dog alive longer than a minute on purpose. The rest had died again within the sixty seconds of their new life. “Actually, it’s just the two of you.” He yawned, “I’m kind of exhausted from the coffin chase so I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

Marco’s head popped out of the bathroom, “Oh yeah sure. I’ll just um…” He fumbled with the door, waiting for Jean to say something.

Jean walked past Marco, careful not to touch and turned his bedroom light on. “You take the bed; I mean, it’s better than a coffin am I right?.” He pointed the couch, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Marco lay on the bed, flicking through the channels on TV. He never realised how much he enjoyed browsing, switching from classic films to comedies before finally settling on watching the news. For some reason, he felt compelled to listen intently, absorbing everything the newscaster had to say that night.

“After being laid to rest, Lonely Tourist Marco Bodt is survived by his aunts, Ymir and Christa-”

In a strange bed, watching his life being unravelled on the evening news, Marco thought about how he had come to be known. There was a point in every kid's life where they say they want to become famous, but famous for singing, or writing. No one wants to be famous for being dead. Especially when they are very much alive.

"Titan Travel, Travel Titan" said the newscaster, "Has offered a $50,000 reward in the murder of Marco Bodt."

"Jean?" Marco whispered crouching down next to him. Jean's eyelids flickered and he groaned, signalling he was paying attention. “How did you know I was dead? Did you see it on the news?”

Jean groaned. “Can we talk about this in the morning? I mean it’s kinda late and you have no idea how tired I am.”

“I think I’d rather talk about this now, they’ve only just released my name. How did you know? Is this about the reward?”

Jean sat up, all traces of tiredness gone from his eyes. “There was something on the news about your death? The reward?”

Marco nodded, “It’s all over the news, You said you wanted to know who killed me, so that justice could be received or whatever. I don’t think that was on the menu, maybe as an additional ingredient to a pie, but not a pie on it’s own."

“It was most definitely a pie on it’s own. It was Eren’s Pie of the Day.” Jean paused, “Can we drop the pie metaphor? If they hadn’t put out a reward I wouldn’t have known you were dead.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“In the morning or when it came up,” Jean scrunched his face up. “Whichever didn’t come first.”

Marco whistled. “$50,000: that makes a lot of pi-.”

“$25,000” Jean butted in, “I have a business partner.”

“What! It’s a business?” Marco frowned, confused.

“Not in a traditional sense …” Jean shrunk his head into his shoulders, beginning to feel this interaction was heading somewhere he didn’t want to go on a wednesday night was he was tired and in desperate need of some chamomile tea.

Unimpressed, Marco crouched down further towards Jean, breaking the personal space boundary. “You touch murder victims, you ask who killed them, you touch them again, and they go back to being dead and you collect their reward?”

Jean winced and drew back further into the sofa, trying to become one with the cushions. “That’s it in a nutshell.” He said sheepishly.

“So, you’re after my reward?” Marco threw his hands into the air exasperatedly, “I’m not mad at you, I just want to know. I’ll be mad at you if you do lie to me, though.”

Jean laughed, and sat up amused at the fact that Marco thought he was just after the money. “I don’t want your reward.”

Marco huffed and narrowed his eyes, “I’ll be so mad if you’re lying, you’ll have me scratching at the drapes.”

“I’m not lying. Please don’t attack the window treatments.” Jean winced, a long time had been spent picking those out and they had been quite expensive.

Marco sighed, and stood up from his position on the floor, giving Jean his space. “Okay, go back to sleep.” He turned back to Jean, pointing a long tan finger at him. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this one though.”

**Author's Note:**

> We hope you enjoyed this! It's 
> 
> Rhiannon's twitter and tumblr:  
> @frenchmymistake  
> french-my-mistake.tumblr.com
> 
> Ashleigh's twitter and tumblr:  
> @killolua  
> apple-bodt-jean.tumblr.com


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